


Cinnamon, Ginger, Cloves, and Nutmeg

by Wife_of_Bath



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Christmas Fluff, Fake Marriage, John Diggle is a treasure, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, No Homophobia AU, Secret Relationship, Sir John is oblivious, Three Lieutenants + Fitzjames sharing one braincell
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21741910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wife_of_Bath/pseuds/Wife_of_Bath
Summary: Every month James Fitzjames publishes his articles filled with delicious recipes, ingenious decorating tips, and tales from his country home. One problem: James can't cook. So when his boss invites himself and a famed veteran and explorer over for Christmas, James must scramble to create the perfect setting for the holidays. Only he finds the ruse increasingly difficult to keep up once he sets eyes on Francis Crozier.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Sir John Franklin/Lady Jane Franklin, Harry D. S. Goodsir/Lady Silence | Silna, John Bridgens/Harry Peglar, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sophia Cracroft/Captain Francis Crozier, Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 31
Kudos: 73





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which plans are hatched

Francis Crozier shook his head, avoiding the concerned look in his best friend’s eyes. “You needn’t worry about me, James.”

“I have every right to worry about you, Frank,” James Clark Ross said. “Especially at this time of year.”

“I have plans.”

“‘Plans’ are not sitting alone in your flat listening to the wireless.”

 _Why not?_ Francis wanted to say but bit back his reply. Any other year, they would not be having this conversation. Ever since their first voyage, James and Francis had spent every Christmas together. Even after James had married, Francis was a guest in the Ross home, and he had never felt unwelcome or uncomfortable with James and Ann. With their first baby on the way, though, Ann’s parents had insisted on seeing them before the due date. Francis did not understand why; surely it made more sense to visit after the baby was born rather than sitting around wondering if Ann was going to pop at any second.

“How is Thot?”

“Fine. The baby’s due after the first of the year. And don’t change the subject.”

Francis rose. There really was not much reason to prolong this conversation any longer. “I promise you, James, I’ll be fine. Give my love to Thot.”

James watched Francis walk down the gravel path that led to the road to town. He wished he could change their plans. He would love to give Ann’s parents their regrets and stay at home, but they were so eager to see Ann. In-laws! For years, they had looked down their noses at him, but once Ann announced she was pregnant, their tune changed entirely. Now they welcomed him with smiles and open arms, but James suspected it was only because they were excited to be grandparents. James had to admit he did not mind that the insinuations about dangerous voyages had ceased, but he hated how it left Francis standing in the cold.

An open page of a magazine Ann had been reading caught his eye. Curious, he picked it up. It was another of James Fitzjames’s recipes. James thought it a little odd that a man was the most popular writer in _The Ladies’ Home and Garden_ , but Ann raved about his articles. Personally, James found the stories about Fitzjames’s husband and life in their country house a little much. The recipes were very good, though.

He had an idea. Sir John Franklin published _The Ladies’ Home and Garden_. Franklin and James’s uncle were bitter rivals, and seeing James’s name in a letter might raise Franklin’s ire. James was willing to take that chance. Maybe the story of Francis’s plight would stir Franklin’s Christian charity.

* * *

The rain pattered against the window as James Fitzjames, homemaker extraordinaire, sat in his flat staring at a half-written page on his typewriter. He banged out a few more words, sat back, and took another bite of canned herring.

A knock on the door broke his concentration. “Come in!”

“Morning James!” Henry “Dundy” Le Vesconte, James’s old comrade in arms, best friend, and editor called as he entered. He paused, taking in the sight of James at the typewriter, and sniffed the air. “I smell writer’s block.”

“No, no. Well, perhaps a little.” He pushed out a chair for Dundy to sit down.

“Coffee?”

“No thank you.”

“It’s not that bad,” James said. He took a sip to prove his point.

“That’s because you’ve developed an immunity.” He leaned forward to get a look at James’s work. “What’s the issue?”

“I’m just trying to find something suitably romantic for the holidays. What’s the most romantic thing you and Graham have done for Christmas?”

“Besides get married?”

James chuckled. He remembered that night well. No one in their unit had been sure if they would make it to the new year, so Dundy and Graham grabbed the chaplain who performed a quick ceremony amidst the rubble as bombs exploded nearby, and men huddled together singing carols.

“Can’t use that one I’m afraid. Anything else?”

“Well last year Graham gave me those expensive biscuits from Italy. But I wouldn’t try for anything too elaborate. People love simplicity over Christmas.”

James shrugged. Dundy had a point. There were only so many ways he could say “my husband and I are very much in love and very happy” though. Before he could say anything, a small packet of letters slid through the mail slot and hit the floor with a light smack.

“Could you get those, Dundy?”

Dundy sorted through the post until he raised an eyebrow at one of the envelopes. “You have a letter from Sir John.”

“Oh?” What did Sir John want? “Read it?”

Dundy’s eyes quickly scanned the page. His face grew pale. “James…” He held out the letter for James to read.

A dozen scenarios floated through his head as he took the paper from Dundy’s hand. Sir John was going to fire him. They determined that the articles were not profitable enough. There were complaints about his recipes. His salary was getting cut. He read the letter.

Oh no. This was much worse.

* * *

“Mr. Fitzjames, come in, come in!” Sir John greeted him warmly as James walked into the office. He had once read that a person’s character was reflected in his surroundings, and that was certainly true for Sir John. The expensive oak paneling on the walls was deceptively plain, as was his desk. A painting of Lady Jane hung behind him, and a photograph of her sat on the desk. On one of the bookshelves was a bronze sculpture of _Praying Hands_ and on another a small, carved Nativity scene Sir John had picked up while he was stationed in Italy.

“Sit down, please,” he said. “I was just reading your latest article. Excellent stuff, and Lady Jane is very excited. I might advise fewer of the foreign dishes in the next issue, though. I hope you have something more traditional planned for the holidays?”

James shoved down his irritation at Sir John’s comment about his recent round of Portuguese recipes. “It was actually about the holidays that I wanted to speak with you, Sir John.”

“You’ll host Captain Crozier at your house, then? It is a shame. A hero like him and no one to share this blessed time of year with. But I am very grateful that you have stepped up to the task.”

“Well, you should know—”

“I understand this is an imposition on you and your husband’s plans for the season, so believe me when I say that Captain Crozier is extremely appreciative of your welcoming him into your home. This is the time of year to open our houses to others, just as the innkeeper sheltered the Holy Family in a stable.”

James blinked. What was he supposed to say to that? “Yes, Sir John.”

With a broad, eager smile, Sir John rose to escort him out. “Very good, very good. I will tell Sir James Ross the news. Merry Christmas, son.”

“Merry Christmas.” The door shut behind him. Well, that was that. He began to pace, passing Sir John’s small, dark-haired secretary, who stared at James like he had just dumped a pot of steamed cauliflower over his head. He weighed his options. There had to be some excuse he could use to call this off. The horses were sick. The cow was sick. His husband was sick. A pipe burst in the bathroom and flooded the whole house. The kitchen caught on fire. Or he could just tell the truth. No, he couldn’t do that. Telling the truth would mean admitting everything James had written for the past five years had been lies, and Sir John hated lies. He prided his publications on their honesty and integrity. Maybe a combination of disasters would work. The cow was sick, his husband had flu, and a kitchen fire had nearly burned down the house.

He turned back to Sir John’s office.

Only for Sir John to open the door and nearly walk straight into James.

“Mr. Fitzjames, this is Providence!” he said. “You were returning to invite Lady Jane and me to your home as well. We gladly accept. My daughter Eleanor will be spending Christmas with friends, but my niece Sophia will arrive on Christmas Eve, and she is looking forward very much to seeing your house.”

James stared at Sir John, his tongue paralyzed. How did this escalate so quickly? “Oh,” he was all he could manage.

Sir John did not notice his dour tone. He beamed as he clapped James on the arm. “Excellent, excellent.” He paused. “Oh, one thing, son. Francis can be a little difficult at times. He has not adjusted to life after the war like some of us have.”

James could only nod. “Wonderful.”

* * *

Dundy and Edward Little were already sitting at their usual table when James entered the restaurant. John Diggle’s place, eloquently named The Diggs, always did a bustling business this time of day, but Diggle made sure to keep a table reserved for the group. The money from James’s articles had helped finance the opening a few years ago, and James and Diggle enjoyed a friendly camaraderie. Only a handful of people knew that Diggle was the genius behind James’s recipes. He was the chef, James was the writer, and together they were a force to be reckoned with. Or they were until Sir John inevitably found out the truth and threw James out on his ear.

Dundy waved at him as James hung up his coat, but at the look on James’s face, his own grin quickly fell.

“Did you tell him the truth?” he asked as James sat down.

“Of course not. Actually I didn’t tell him anything.”

“Rare for you not to speak up,” Edward commented.

“I could barely get a word in. And it’s gotten worse.”

“Worse?” Dundy paused stirring his tea. “How is it worse?”

“He, Lady Jane, and Miss Cracroft are coming too.”

A heavy silence fell over the three. Dundy slumped back in his chair while Edward found the napkin wrapped around his silverware very interesting. James just wanted a meteor to hit the Earth and end his suffering.

“There’s no way to make an excuse to get this canceled, is there?” Edward asked.

“I thought of that, but every time I opened my mouth, Sir John started talking.” James had never been out-talked before in his life, and to be spoken over by Sir John, well, it was an experience James did not want to relive ever again.

“Well, it was good while it lasted,” Dundy sighed.

The door opened as the fourth member of their party entered, bringing with him a rush of cold air. George Hodgson taught music at the conservatory, and he looked it. He smiled eagerly at his friends as he sat down at the table.

“Merry Christmas,” he greeted cheerfully as he examined the menu. “Has Diggle said what the special is today? I hope it is his ham and baked apples. It is the perfect day for that.” Receiving no reply from the others, he glanced around at their somber faces.

“What’s wrong?”

“James is going to be fired.”

George dropped the menu. “But that’s preposterous! You’re the most successful writer in that magazine!”

“I haven’t been fired yet,” James said. “But when Sir John finds out what I’ve been up to, I will be.” He explained the whole mess to George, who leaned forward listening with wide eyes.

“Oh dear, you are in a spot,” George said when James had finished. His eyebrows drew together, an odd expression on his face. He nodded, resolute. “There is only one solution. You must get married.”

James let out a bark of laughter in surprise. “I can’t get married at such short notice! Who on earth would I marry?”

“No, no, not really get married. You just need to pretend you’re married until after Christmas.”

“I’ve been pretending for years.”

“Yes, but this time, you will actually have a living, breathing person beside you.” He turned expectantly to Dundy.

“Oh no. Any other time of the year, yes, but Christmas is our anniversary. I’m not doing that to Graham.”

“Well I’m giving a concert on Christmas Eve, and then we’re visiting my wife’s family…” he trailed off.

Edward glanced up at the sudden silence only to find all three looking at him. “What?”

“Ned, do your parents still have their house in the country?”

“Yes?”

“And are they going to the Bahamas again this year?”

“They always do.”

“Perfect!” George exclaimed. “James Fitzjames, meet your husband, Edward Little.”

“Oh I’m not sure…” Edward started.

“It is perfect,” James agreed. Edward’s parents’ house had been one of his inspirations when he was drafting the layout of his fictional country home. “You just volunteer to housesit for them, and everyone comes, Sir John is satisfied, the guests leave, we clean up, no one is any the wiser.”

Edward looked disturbed by the idea. “I haven’t had a secret house party since I was a teenager, and it did not go well.”

“This wouldn’t be anything like that,” Dundy said. “Certainly not with Sir John.”

“We wouldn’t even have to sleep in the same bed, Edward,” James added. “Just hold my hand and put me up in a back room, and no one will notice.”

“There’s only one problem with this brilliant plan,” Edward said. “You can’t cook.”

Dundy shook his head. “You can’t cook.”

“I can’t cook.”

“You can’t cook,” George added. He snapped his fingers. “But Diggle can!” He turned towards the kitchen. “Mr. Diggle! Mr. Diggle, we need you!”

John Diggle emerged from his sanctum, a plate of stuffed mushrooms in his hands. He placed it in the center of the table. “So I heard.”

“You know about James’s situation?” George asked.

“The whole sad story, unfortunately.”

“Then you know how much he needs you now. Do you think you could spend Christmas at Edward’s house, and you and James could work out a way where you cook the food and James serves it?”

Diggle raised an eyebrow. “Like Cyrano de Bergerac but with dinner?”

George shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Need I remind you how that turned out?” Diggle shook his head. “Why not just tell Sir John the truth?”

“And get fired?”

“There are worse things that could happen to you than getting fired. However,” Diggle thought for a moment, “the restaurant can survive a few days without me. I think we can figure out something.”

James let out a deep sigh of relief as some of the tension in his shoulders dissipated. He reached for one of Diggle’s mushrooms. Maybe he wasn’t doomed after all.

* * *

James collapsed in the chair next to the fire. It had been a long time since he was this exhausted and stressed. For the past week, he, Dundy, Graham, and Edward had been busy preparing the house, with occasional input from George and Diggle. All his years of writing about Christmas decorating and festivities, and he never realized how difficult it actually was. How could he when the extent of the decorations in his flat consisted of the wreath he hung on his door? It was not just the seasonal things but making sure that each guest had all necessary accommodations and comforts. Nestling deeper in the chair, he closed his eyes and ran over the checklist in his head. The tree was decorated, the garland put up, the wreaths hung, and the candles placed in the windows. The bathrooms had fresh towels and soap, and all the beds had clean linens. Diggle, mercifully, was looking after the food.

Upstairs, James could hear Edward rummaging as he double-checked a list of his own. He wondered if Edward would forgive him for sleeping until after New Year’s.

The sound of a car approaching snapped him to attention. Their guests were early! They weren’t supposed to arrive for another two hours. James scrambled up and looked out the window. Two men climbed out of a car. Crozier then. He hurried to the door. He was still sweaty, and he had hoped to change out of his jumper, but there was no time for that now. James pushed his hair out of his face and took a deep breath. The doorbell rang.

James opened the door and felt his heart skip a beat at the sight of the man in front of him.

Captain Francis Crozier was strongly built, shorter than James, with a powerful set to his shoulders. His hair, mostly hidden under his navy blue cap, was fair with faint shades of red. His eyes were blue, and he had a commanding bearing to his features. He also looked singularly unhappy.

James realized he was staring. “Merry Christmas, Captain Crozier.”

Captain Crozier hesitated, before giving James’s hand a quick, firm shake. “Merry Christmas. I believe your father, James Fitzjames, invited me?”

“James Fitzjames is not my father,” he replied quickly. “I’m James Fitzjames. Well, in fact, my name is James Little. James Fitzjames is my pen name.” James could have knocked himself in the head. What kind of host was he? Here he was rambling while Crozier stood out in the cold. “I apologize for keeping you out here. Won’t you come in?” He stepped aside for Crozier to enter. A young man with remarkable blue eyes followed him.

“Do you have everything you need, sir?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Jopson.” He turned to James. “Jopson is my steward. I would be lost without him on sea and land.” He nodded at Jopson. “I think I can handle it from here.”

It seemed wrong to send the young man back into the snow immediately after he arrived. “Jopson, if you want, Mr. Diggle can make you some tea in the kitchen.”

Jopson smiled. “Very kind of you, Mr. Fitzjames. Thank you.”

With Jopson in the kitchen, James took care of Crozier’s bags himself. He led him upstairs, occasionally glancing back at his guest. Crozier was silent, and his eyes darted around as he took in the house. James itched to fill the awkward stillness.

“I’m glad you were able to come,” he began. “When Sir John wrote to us, there was no way we could refuse. I hope you will be comfortable here. It’s quiet, but we’re very happy. Of course, the neighbors will drop in on Christmas Day, and there will be festivities in the village. It can make for some lively nights.” He turned to see Crozier looking even more miserable, if that was possible.

“Or you can just keep to yourself,” he added.

James opened the door to Crozier’s room. He set the bags on the floor and watched as Crozier slowly unbuttoned his coat. “I’ll take that,” he interjected. Despite Crozier’s mood, James could not help but admire how striking he looked in his naval uniform.

“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you.”

James folded the coat over his arm. The wool was slightly damp from the snow. “Again, I hope you’ll be comfortable, Francis. May I call you Francis?”

Crozier looked at him like he had suggested going ice-skating in pajamas. “Crozier is fine.”

 _Melancholic grouch_ , James thought. “I’ll leave you to get unpacked then.” He pulled the door closed behind him. James sighed and leaned against the wall. It was going to be a very interesting Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My quest to mix The Terror with classic movies commences! This one draws a lot from the 1945 movie _Christmas in Connecticut_ , which if you've seen it, you probably recognize the premise. 
> 
> Yes, Francis's nickname for Ann Ross really was Thot.
> 
> Since this fic is set in a fantasy 1950s and inspired by an American movie, there are probably more American Christmas elements than British ones (snow, lots of decorations), but James loves to go all out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Edward is besotted, Lady Jane is suspicious, and a cow brings James and Francis closer together.

Edward took a final glance at the spare bedroom. James had insisted that he didn’t need much, just a bed and a lamp, but Edward felt guilty about stashing him in the room his parents mainly used for storage. It had been more work than he expected, but he finally managed to hide all the boxes filled with his and his siblings’ baby clothes, prizes, and old toys that his mother was too sentimental to discard. After several hours, he could finally call the room comfortable, maybe even cozy, although that was probably pushing it.

He froze at the loud ring of the doorbell. The guests were early! Edward had hoped that he and James would have a couple of hours to rehearse their story one more time to make sure they had all the details right. He ducked out of the guest room and sneaked around the corner to see James talking to a man dressed in a Royal Navy greatcoat. He sighed in relief that it was only Captain Crozier. James could handle him on his own. Quietly, Edward crept down the back stairway to the kitchen where he intended to hide until James needed him to help play host.

It was not that Edward had no confidence in this plan. He had just the right amount of confidence tempered with the knowledge that the holiday season brought every possible kind of misfortune. But James knew what he was doing, Diggle had things under control in the kitchen, and all Edward had to do was play the role of the loving, supportive husband. Baring some freak disaster, this little gathering would be stressful but successful.

The rich smell of freshly baked scones lured him further. Neither James nor Edward had eaten anything since breakfast, a hurried affair of toast and jam, much to Diggle’s chagrin. Surely James would not begrudge Edward having a leisurely snack?

Edward pushed open the kitchen door. He stopped short.

Sitting at the table, a cup of tea in his hand, was the most radiant, enchanting creature Edward had ever seen.

At the sight of Edward, the stranger’s blue-green eyes widened. Quickly, he set his cup aside and stood up. “Excuse me, Mr. Little,” he said. “My name is Thomas Jopson. I’m Captain Crozier’s steward. I came to make sure he was settled, and your husband graciously offered me some tea.”

“What?” Edward blinked, coming out of his daze. “Oh yes, tea.” He motioned towards the table. “Please, sit.” He pulled out a chair to join him. “Would you like anything else? Has Diggle offered you one of his scones?”

Thomas shook his head. “Thank you, sir. The tea is enough for me before I go.”

Edward’s heart sank. What a cruel trick to bring this lovely man into his home only to snatch him away! “You’re leaving?”

“Pardon me, Mr. Little, but I wasn’t invited.”

“Oh.” What kind of oversight was this? He and James should have been informed that Crozier had a steward! A caring, devoted, dutiful, devastatingly handsome steward! “Well, I suppose you have plans of your own for Christmas. Visiting family, friends,” he said, swallowing his disappointment.

The polite smile on Thomas’s face faded slightly. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Little. It’ll just be myself.”

“You mean you’re going to be all on your own?”

“Yes sir.”

The spark of hope flared up again. Edward grabbed Thomas’s wrist. “Then you must stay with us!”

Diggle looked up from his saucepan.

“Mr. Little, I couldn’t impose.”

“Nonsense. We have a spare bedroom. It’s all made up and ready for you. We even have extra pajamas if you need them.”

Thomas pushed away the lock of dark hair that fell across his forehead. “I have my own bag, thank you. But won’t your husband object?”

“Of course not,” Edward said, ignoring Diggle’s raised eyebrows. “He’ll be delighted you’re here.” He nudged the small suitcase under the table with his foot. “Is this yours?” At Thomas’s nod, Edward grinned. “Then once you finish your tea, come with me, and we’ll get you comfortable.”

Thomas’s smile returned, brighter and showing off his dimples. “In that case, I’ll be happy to spend Christmas with you, sir.”

A sensible voice in Edward’s head insisted that he intercept James to tell him about this new development. Edward banished it to the back of his mind. For now, he just wanted to sit here and enjoy Thomas’s company.

* * *

The Franklins arrived in a flurry of excitement and good cheer. The moment Lady Jane stepped inside the house, she let out a series of “oohs,” “ahhs,” and delighted exclamations of how all was exactly as James had described in his articles, right down to Fagin the Cat (played by Edward’s parents’ tabby Mimsy) curled up by the fireplace. Both Franklins had sniffed in disappointment that James would not solely be preparing their meals, but Lady Jane seemed to understand better than Sir John why James needed help with so many guests. At least they were appreciative of Diggle’s “assistance.”

Everything was perfect. Well, almost everything.

“Do you think Francis wants to be here?” James asked as he dried the dishes from dinner. He had left Edward with their guests so he could confer with Diggle privately for a few minutes. It was a little underhanded leaving Edward alone, but judging by the noises of conversation from the sitting room, Lady Jane was doing most of the talking. Edward could hold out for a little longer.

“I couldn’t say,” John replied. Truthfully, he thought it was obvious that Crozier had been dragged by the collar to this little Yuletide gathering.

“He seems so unhappy. I don’t want him to be unhappy.”

“If you try to force anything, you’ll only make it worse,” John said, handing him another plate. “This time of year can be hard for people. He is also probably ill at ease. Strange house, strange people.”

“Then what can I do?”

“Make sure he knows he’s welcome but don’t try to pull him into anything. Let things develop naturally.” It was like preparing a stew. One had to wait patiently for the flavors to develop. Of course, there were always shortcuts, but the results were never quite as satisfying.

“I have a more pressing matter, however,” he said. “Edward seems very taken with Mr. Jopson.”

“I’m not surprised. Jopson is a remarkable man.”

“Yes, but is his interest in keeping with a devoted and faithful husband?”

That gave James pause. He shook his head. “Edward is fine. There is no need to worry about him.”

John was not so sure. On the one hand, it was a pleasant change to see the normally solemn and taciturn Edward Little light up like a starry night’s sky whenever he looked at Mr. Jopson. On the other, he wondered if Edward had ever heard of the word “subtle.” He was not the only one John was concerned about, either. From his vantage point in the kitchen, he had seen the way James’s attention centered on Crozier. A less observant spy might say that James was just trying to be a good host and make Crozier feel included. John recognized James’s surreptitious glances at Crozier when he thought no one was watching, though. He had seen them time and time again on couples sharing a romantic dinner in his restaurant.

“Lady Jane was asking about Christmas dinner earlier,” James said, changing the subject. He stacked the plates to put in the cupboard. “She wanted to know if we were planning to make a Jell-O salad. It’s not a bad idea.”

John stared at him aghast. One of those modern monstrosities in his kitchen? “No.”

* * *

Lady Jane Franklin turned another page of her Agatha Christie novel. Despite the riveting plot, she found it hard to concentrate on the developing murder mystery. Her mind kept replaying dinner. It had been delicious, a hearty chicken pie that was filling yet simple enough to keep from spoiling them on too much rich food before Christmas dinner. She admired James’s planning very much; it seemed he thought of everything. There was something about the house that did not feel quite right, however. Jane could not put her finger on it.

“Darling,” she said, nudging her husband beside her, “do you think James and Edward are happy?”

“Oh I should think so,” John replied, not looking up from his own book. “Why?”

“I’m not sure. Did you see James at dinner? He couldn’t take his eyes off Francis.”

“Of course. It’s not everyday one has a war hero over for Christmas.”

Jane did not comment that she thought those looks spoke of something deeper than admiration. John could be so sweetly oblivious sometimes! “I just think it’s a little strange. And another thing. When I tried calling Fagin over, she jumped up and ran the other way!”

“Cats won’t come when you call them, Janie.”

“Jacko does.”

“That’s because you always have a treat in your hand. You’ve trained her.”

John did have a point about that. “Well I don’t know. I just think there is something going on.”

“What are you reading?” John leaned over her shoulder to catch the title of her book. “Janie, you don’t think we’re going to have a murder for Christmas, do you?”

“Of course not.” She had to admit that all the elements were there. An assortment of characters gathered together for an event at a house in the country. On the surface, idyllic but below hidden passions. All they needed was the eccentric detective to complete the group. “You must admit it would be terribly exciting.”

“And terrible for sales,” John replied.

“Hmm.” He was wrong about that. A Christmas murder would see magazine sales skyrocket. People would queue for hours to get a copy of the tale. Not that Jane actually wanted anyone to get murdered.

Her thoughts turned to another, more serious matter. “Dearest, do you think it was a good idea to invite Sophy here?”

John looked at her surprised. “Of course it was a good idea. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Francis.”

John patted her knee. “That was years ago. She turned him down twice.”

That was true. Despite her affection for Francis, Sophy had been resolute in her decision. There was a special quality about Christmas that could mess with a woman’s head, however. The holly and the mistletoe and the desire to curl up with the person closest. If Francis proposed again, Jane feared Sophy would get swept up in the holiday romance and accept before she realized what she was doing.

“I hope you’re right,” she said and returned to her book just in time for Hercule Poirot to discover the second body.

* * *

For the third time that night, Francis rolled over, punched his pillow, and tried to go back to sleep. It was not that his room was uncomfortable; the bed was soft, the blankets snug, and the temperature warm. He simply could not relax. What had James been thinking arranging an invitation for Francis to come to this place? Just because he did not want a repeat of Christmas 1946.

Francis did not want to think of Christmas 1946.

He supposed that he should count himself lucky. There were people who would do more than murder for a chance to peek inside the house of England’s Favorite Cook. Francis had to admit, it was all very well put together, and the Littles seemed genuine in their efforts to make him feel at home. Seeing them together, wrapped up in domestic bliss, just reminded Francis of what he resigned himself to never have. Sir John and Lady Jane staying under the same roof certainly did not help either. If he had known they would be here too, he would have done anything short of jumping into the Thames to avoid coming.

To his surprise, they had been very polite to him, even genial. Perhaps it was the spirit of the season. Perhaps they found his company agreeable as long as he was not courting their niece.

Francis did not want to think about Sophia.

A glance at the bedside clock told him it was a quarter to six. It was as good a time as any to get up, and if anyone questioned it, he could blame it on being an early riser. Maybe a smoke outside would do him good. It would give him a chance to get out of the house, at least for a little while. Grabbing his greatcoat and pipe, he crept down the stairs.

The house was completely silent. All the other inhabitants were still asleep, apart from Fagin who was sitting on the chair by the fire watching Francis with her bright, curious eyes. Strange, Francis thought he had read that Fagin was a boy, but the cat was clearly female.

A low mumble coming from the sofa drew Francis’s attention. Quietly, he crept over and found James Fitzjames (he had a hard time thinking of him as James Little) asleep, wrapped up in a blanket like a mummy. Francis did not understand. Fitzjames and Little had gone to bed in their room. Francis had seen them go upstairs together, Little’s arm around Fitzjames’s waist. What on earth was he doing here?

Fitzjames stirred but mercifully remained asleep. Alone and unobserved, Francis could not stop himself from admiring the way the soft glow from the fireplace highlighted the sharp angles of Fitzjames’s face. His hair lay wild against the pillow, tousled from sleep. Francis wondered what it would be like to reach out and smooth one of those errant waves. How lucky Edward Little was to wake up to this every morning.

Francis stepped away from the sofa before he did something foolish. The cold air would clear his mind. As he opened the door, he took a deep breath, bracing himself against the icy sting. Freshly fallen snow crunched under his boots as he walked out into the early morning. Darkness still blanketed the sky, but the first rays of dawn began stretching out from the east. The sight reminded him of the first sunrises he celebrated with James and their crews during their scientific expeditions in the Poles. Compared to that, the weather here was practically spring-like, but the chill brought him back to the days when they navigated their ships around icebergs instead of mines. Francis lit his pipe and watched the smoke rise in the air.

“You’re up early.” Francis turned to see Fitzjames standing behind him, an overcoat thrown over his pajamas.

“I could say the same about you. Did I wake you?”

“I’m a light sleeper.” He shuffled over beside Francis. “Did you see me on the sofa?”

“I wasn’t going to ask.”

“Sometimes I get ideas in the middle of the night. It’s best to write them down when they’re fresh than wait until morning.”

“You didn’t look like you were writing.”

“Well, no,” Fitzjames replied quickly. “I got tired. I didn’t want to wake Edward coming back to bed.”

“Hmm.” Francis did not want to know the subject of Fitzjames’s next article, but he could guess. _Happy New Year, dear readers. Over Christmas, my darling husband and I hosted the war hero Captain Francis Crozier. If the name is familiar, he served with Sir James Ross on the Arctic convoys and the Battle of the Atlantic during the war. Although Captain Crozier is notoriously antisocial and prone to dark moods, I was determined to bring some Yuletide cheer into his life, as well as some new recipes I have been developing in my spare time…_ “I would prefer if you kept me out of it.”

Fitzjames looked at him surprised. “I wasn’t going to write about you. Not behind your back. Not unless you want me to.”

“Oh.” As kind as Fitzjames had been, Francis had suspected some part of this was an act, a show of generosity to get a little free publicity and goodwill from his reading public. Why else would Fitzjames be willing to bring a perfect stranger into his house for Christmas? His face flushed in embarrassment that he had let his assumptions color his view of his host. “I’m sorry. I misjudged you.”

Fitzjames lowered his gaze. “I don’t want you to think you’re unwelcome, Captain. I’m glad you’re here.” He buried the toe of his boot under a patch of snow. “I think I would like to write about you, although it wouldn’t be the kind of thing my public usually reads.”

“Francis.”

A slow smile spread across James’s face that Francis could not help but return as his heart beat a little faster. “Francis.”

In the distance, something large slowly made its way towards them. The two stood completely still, watching it approach uncertainly, before Francis burst into laughter. “Victoria!” he called, recognizing the shape of the cow in the darkness.

James’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve read my articles.”

“A few of them.” He had to learn a little about his hosts before he arrived. He trudged through the snow, James at his side, where Victoria stood waiting for them.

“She must have let herself out of the barn,” James commented. He gave her a firm pat on the flank and nodded for her to follow like one would a dog. “Come on, girl.” Victoria stared at him. “Come on.” He gave her rear a little shove. She did not budge. “All right.” He took hold of her harness and tugged. Victoria’s four hooves remained firmly planted. Glancing at Francis, James squared his shoulders and pulled again, harder this time. His foot slipped on an icy patch of ground. He tumbled down, flat on his back, his eyes wide in astonishment. Victoria turned to look at Francis and slowly blinked her large brown eyes.

“I actually don’t do this much,” he admitted. “Usually, Edward takes care of the animals.”

“You’re lucky. It could have been manure instead of snow,” Francis said, remembering his own experiences with his neighbor’s cow. It was all he could do to keep from laughing at James's plight. He held out his hand. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” With James’s hand firmly gripped in his, Francis managed to hoist him up with one swift pull. James’s boots (silly fancy things, not suited for work on a farm) skidded again on the frozen ground. Francis grabbed his arms to help steady him.

“Better?” He looked up and found himself transfixed. So close, he could see the length of James’s lashes, the rosy flush of his cheeks from the cold, the bits of snow clinging to James’s hair. Francis wanted to reach out and brush them away, tangle his fingers in those waves.

“Much better.” James’s breath was warm against his face. His eyes were dark. It would be such a little thing to lean forward and press his lips to James’s. They could blame it on the snow and the early morning and the cow. Especially the cow.

Something hard nudged Francis in the back. He turned to see Victoria standing behind him. She lowed loudly in protest. Francis shook himself. What was he doing out here in the snow, a married man in his arms? He gripped Victoria’s harness. “Well come on. Let’s get Victoria in the barn and you in the house before you catch pneumonia.”

* * *

It had taken a long soak in the bathtub before the cold seeped out of James’s bones, but it had been worth it to feel Francis’s arms around him.

He emerged from the kitchen with a plate of mince pies. Lady Jane sat on the sofa, “Fagin” curled up beside her. Francis and Sir John were playing chess (Francis was winning, James noted with pride). He spotted Edward and Thomas by the piano looking at old photographs of Edward and his siblings as children. Edward’s hand rested near Thomas’s, their fingers almost touching. He leaned in to whisper something that made Thomas laugh.

“Something for an afternoon treat,” James announced. All heads turned to him and the mince pies. Lady Jane rose and hurried over to take one.

“These are delightful!” she exclaimed. “I must say James, I’m a little disappointed. I was hoping to have a chance to watch you cook.”

“I don’t usually have an audience in the kitchen,” he said quickly.

“But surely you can make an exception? I promise, you won’t even notice me.” She waved Edward over. “Edward, please support me. It is simply not fair that James gets to keep all his secrets.”

Reluctantly, Edward left Thomas’s side. The moment he joined Lady Jane, she stepped away from them. Her gaze darted to something above their heads, an expectant look in her eyes. James and Edward looked up. A sprig of mistletoe hung from the doorway. A sprig that had not been there yesterday.

“I hope you don’t mind, James,” she said. “I noticed you didn’t have any, so I went to the village this morning to buy some. After all, what is Christmas without mistletoe?”

“Ah, thank you.” Edward's eyes widened in disbelief. Did she really expect them...in front of everyone? James gave Edward an encouraging smile. It shouldn’t be hard. It was just a kiss. Edward was his friend. Friends kissed all the time. He glanced at Francis who was pointedly staring at the chessboard. Edward took one more lingering look at Thomas before cupping James’s face in his hands. “Make it convincing,” James told himself. It was just a kiss. Closing his eyes, he tried to replace Edward with Francis in his imagination and leaned forward.

The ring of the doorbell brought an unexpected reprieve. They broke apart and both hurried to the door.

“We don’t have any wedding pictures,” Edward hissed to James.

“What?”

“Thomas noticed there were no wedding pictures of us.”

James had not thought of that. It had never occurred to him to meddle with the photos. What kind of person went rifling through someone else’s pictures? Did Thomas Jopson have a secret occupation as a spy? It was too late to worry about that, though. They would just have to come up with another excuse.

A police sergeant stood on their doorstep. “Edward! Your parents mentioned that you would be staying here. I just came around to make sure everything is all right.” His mouth fell open when he recognized James. “James Fitzjames?”

“Pleasure to meet you, Sergeant…”

“Tozer.”

“Everything’s fine, Solomon,” Edward said. “Why?”

“The Goodsirs reported a couple of suspicious characters lurking about. Thought I’d come by to see if you had seen anything. Your parents didn’t mention anything about guests.”

“It was a sudden decision,” James said. He handed Tozer a mince pie. “What did they look like?”

“One small, one tall. Silna said she couldn’t get a good look at them, but they set Tuunbaq off something fierce.” He eyed his pie with admiration. “Wait till I tell Caroline I got a mince pie from James Fitzjames!”

“Solomon,” Edward began.

“Don’t worry, Edward, I’ll keep your secret. I may need two more of those to buy my silence. One for the wife and one to share?”

James handed them over. “Happy Christmas, Sergeant.”

“And the same to you. Do let me know if you see anything. Thanks for the sweet.” Tozer waved as he walked down the path, pies in hand. James turned to Edward, who was watching the policeman with an anxious expression on his face.

“Should we be worried?” he asked, giving Edward a pie and taking one more for himself.

“Oh yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Victorians and people in the 1950s loved their gelatin treats! We make fun of how gross they look (and a lot of them do look disgusting), but with the rise of refrigeration in the 1950s, Jell-O salads were seen as a status symbol and they made for an eye-catching presentation at parties. That doesn't mean that John Diggle is in any hurry to suspend a bunch of shrimp or ham in lime Jell-O. To be honest, I don't know when the product Jell-O made its way to the UK, which had its own brands of powdered gelatin or if the Brits ever got on board the congealed savory salads train. Lady Jane would probably be intrigued by them because of the American factor and that they were considered glamorous and fancy (Diggle disagrees).
> 
> [The Arctic Convoys of WWII](https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/a-5-minute-history-of-arctic-convoys) and [the Battle of the Atlantic](https://www.iwm.org.uk/history/what-you-need-to-know-about-the-battle-of-the-atlantic). Francis's war experiences don't play a huge role in this fic, but I did research to figure out what he could have been doing during WWII, so you get that background info too.
> 
> Caroline was the name of the real-life Solomon Tozer's wife who died a year before the Franklin Expedition set sail.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Thomas and Edward come to a realization, Sophia arrives, James and Francis take a walk, and two troublemakers get more than they bargained for.

That night as the clock chimed midnight and announced the arrival of Christmas Eve, Thomas Jopson lay in bed confused. It was not a state of mind the extremely skilled and observant steward was used to. The fact that something odd was going on in the Little household was obvious, though Thomas had a difficult time understanding exactly what it was. On the surface, everything seemed perfect. James and Edward Little had good jobs, a nice farm, and a very lazy well-fed cat. They acted genuinely fond of each other with no hint of marital tension. And yet, Thomas had noticed James lingering close to Crozier at every possible opportunity while Edward gazed at Thomas like he was the most desirable creature on earth.

It was not that Thomas found Edward unattractive or his interest repugnant. Far from it. With his dark hair and eyes, he reminded Thomas of a dashing hero from long ago, like a medieval knight or a Regency gentleman. Although he was quiet and serious (a little like Crozier in that regard, Thomas thought with a grin), he was easy to talk to, earnest, and considerate. It was not just any man who would invite a perfect stranger to Christmas so he would not be alone on the holiday. Edward had a very nice smile too, and Thomas enjoyed watching the way his eyes reflected the joy on his face. Edward was a man anyone would be happy to call husband. It was just Thomas’s luck that James Fitzjames had snatched him up first.

Perhaps James and Edward had an arrangement, like some couples Thomas had heard about. That would not explain the lack of wedding photos, though. Thomas had not meant to pry; he was just having fun looking at the pictures of Edward as a child, teenager, and young Naval officer. It was only when he had set aside a photo from one of Edward’s sister's wedding that he realized there were none of Edward and James’s.

He sat up at the sound of a soft knock outside. Thomas opened his door to find Edward holding two mugs of hot cocoa.

“I saw your light and thought you might still be up,” he said.

Thomas took one of the mugs. “Thank you very much. Won’t you come in?” A risky move inviting Edward into his bedroom, Thomas’s mind warned, but what mischief could they possibly get up to over hot cocoa? Besides, it was ridiculous and rude to leave Edward standing outside. They sat across from each other on the edge of the bed, their knees only a few inches apart. Thomas wrapped his hands tightly around the mug to squash any impulse to brush his fingers along Edward’s leg.

He took a sip of his drink. “Very good.” A little sweeter than he normally made his, but he liked it.

“I can’t do much in the kitchen, but I can make a decent cup of cocoa,” Edward said. “I didn’t know if you preferred cream or marshmallows, so I put in both.”

“I like both,” Thomas said. “You’re making me feel very decadent.”

“It’s Christmas or close enough. I think we can be decadent, if only for a little while.”

Thomas swallowed as ideas of just how decadent they could be formed in his mind. From the look on Edward’s face, he was thinking the same thing. He leaned forward, only to hesitate and pull back before Thomas could close his eyes in anticipation.

“Well,” Edward said, letting out an awkward little cough, “You don’t mind? The cocoa, I mean.”

Thomas hid his flushing face behind his cup. “I don’t mind. Not at all.”

They fell into easy conversation, swapping stories of their childhoods, their time during the war, and various misadventures. Edward told him about the Mediterranean and China where he had met James, riding a horse for the first time, and getting a horrible case of stage fright during a school production of _The Three Musketeers_. Thomas described his old home in Marylebone, looking after his brother while their mother worked the nightshift, and the expeditions in the Poles with Sir James Ross and Crozier. He could not keep the admiration out of his voice while talking about his captain. He had seen Crozier brave the most perilous conditions in peace and war with a clear eye and rise from the depths of despair when disappointment after disappointment had driven him to his lowest point.

“You are very close to him,” Edward remarked.

“I am,” he said. “After our house was hit during the Blitz…he was there for me.” He traced a finger over the embroidered patterns on the coverlet. “He may not admit it, but coming here has been good for him.” Crozier had smiled more in the past day that he had three months previous. Thomas suspected part of that was due to James, which made him concerned. To be rejected twice by the woman he was in love with was one thing; to fall for someone he could never have was another. Thomas did not want to see Crozier hurt again.

“We’re happy he’s here,” Edward said. Gently, he placed his hand over Thomas’s. His fingers were warm from the mug. “I’m happy you’re here.”

Thomas glanced up, only to break into a bemused grin when he noticed a bit of cream clinging to Edward’s upper lip. “Hold still,” he said at Edward’s confused expression. “You’ve got a little here.” Reaching out, he brushed the cream away with his thumb. Edward caught his hand and pressed his lips against Thomas’s finger. Thomas’s breath hitched at the wet heat of Edward’s mouth against his skin. He looked into his dark eyes, so full of need and longing, and closed the distance between them.

In the movies, there was always a big swell of music when the two leads finally embraced. Thomas had always thought that was just for show, but now, as Edward’s mouth moved against his, he could almost hear the romantic violins. Edward moaned, his lips parting to welcome Thomas inside. Thomas surged forward, his hand curling around the back of Edward’s neck to bring them closer. The sweetness of the chocolate still lingered on his tongue. The taste jolted Thomas back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” he quickly said. “This was a mistake.”

Edward’s eyes widened with concern. “Thomas?”

“Believe me, I don’t want to stop, but we can’t do this.”

“Thomas.”

“I can’t do this. You are married, and I don’t know what is between you and your husband, but I cannot in good conscience—”

“Thomas!” Edward cupped his face. “Thomas, James and I aren’t married.”

Thomas’s brain skidded to a halt. He blinked as he tried to comprehend what Edward just said. “What?”

“We’re not married. Never have been. Not even walked out together.”

Thomas slumped back against the pillows, nearly spilling cocoa on his pajamas. He frowned, trying to detect any sign of a joke or a lie, but Edward’s face was sincere. Not married? What on earth was going on here? “Explain.”

Edward told him the whole story, how James really lived in a flat in London and had the cooking skills of a mouse, of Sir John’s idea, and the plan James and his friends concocted to make Christmas for Crozier and the Franklins. As he listened, Thomas went from shocked to astounded to barely keeping himself from bursting out in laughter at how ridiculous and convoluted the situation was.

“You did all this for Crozier?” he asked.

“I’m not sure that was the intent in the beginning,” Edward said, “but I know it’s what James wants now.”

Thomas sat up again. “And you?”

“I just want things to work out for the best. Especially for one special guest.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you’ve met him, but he’s the most remarkable man I’ve ever met. Brave, loyal, stunningly handsome.” Edward’s fingers crawled up Thomas’s knee. “I have it on good authority he likes marshmallows and cream.”

“Does he?” Thomas replied with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t imagine who that could be.” He leaned forward to kiss Edward again.

* * *

James hovered in that unusual state of sleep where he knew he was dreaming but was too content and relaxed to pull himself out of it. He was sitting on the sofa, curled up against Francis’s side as they watched the logs in the fireplace glow and crackle. Francis’s hand rested on James’s hip. The tips of his fingers dipped under the hem of James’s jumper. James shifted a little closer and nuzzled the sensitive spot under Francis’s jaw, enjoying the low rumble of Francis’s laugh. James closed his eyes. He did not have to get up yet. Let him have this, just for a little while longer.

“Son?” Francis asked, which was wrong because Francis would never call him that. James decided it ignore the intrusion. “Son?” the voice repeated, now sounding more like a concerned Sir John. What was Sir John doing in his dream?

James jerked awake to see Sir John standing above him, a stack of brightly colored packages in his arms. A hasty glance at the clock told him it was after seven o’clock in the morning, still early but past the time he had planned to get up and sneak back into Edward’s bedroom. He untangled himself from the blankets. “Good morning, Sir John.”

“Good morning, James. Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, just a touch of insomnia,” he lied. “I usually grapple with it this time of year. Holiday excitement, you know. I didn’t want to keep Edward awake, so I came down to admire the tree.” He took the presents from Sir John. “Here, I’ll arrange these.”

Sir John looked like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. He knelt down to help James position the packages under the Christmas tree. “I know this time of year can be stressful.” He placed a paternal hand on James’s shoulder. “If you ever need someone to confide in, you can always come to me.”

The ring of the doorbell cut off any insistence from James that he appreciated the offer but all was well. Grateful for the interruption, James headed to the door. A strikingly pretty blond woman stood outside.

“Mr. Fitzjames?” she asked. “I don’t think we’ve formally met. I’m Sophia Cracroft.”

James shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Cracroft. Come in.”

“Please, call me Sophia. I hope I didn’t wake everyone,” she said as she stepped inside the house. Her eyes lit up.

“Oh this is lovely!” she exclaimed. “It’s exactly how you described it in the Christmas issue.” She unbuttoned her coat, revealing a nurse’s uniform underneath.

“Sophy!” Sir John exclaimed. “I thought you weren’t coming until noon.”

“I thought so too, but I managed to swap shifts at the hospital so I could get here earlier.” She shook her head as Sir John slowly stood up. “Were you sitting on the floor? You know you need to be careful with your leg.”

“Now, I get enough of that from your aunt. My leg is fine, and it can’t hurt to give it a little extra exercise.” He walked over to give her a hug.

“Could I get you anything, Sophia? Are you hungry?” James asked.

“I could eat, but I’d prefer to get unpacked first.”

“Of course. I’ll show you to your room.” He moved to get her bag, but Sophia picked it up herself. He motioned for her to follow.

They were nearly halfway up the stairs when Francis walked out of his room. He stopped when he saw them, an odd expression of surprise, fondness, and regret on his face.

“Sophia.”

Sophia smiled up at him. “Hello Francis. Merry Christmas.”

A twinge of jealousy stirred inside James, only to be quickly overtaken by the painful ache of disappointment. The realization hit him like a speeding train. Francis and Sophia Cracroft had history together, and whatever had happened between them, that warmth and affection remained. James took a step away from them, suddenly feeling very foolish. How could he have thought that Francis would ever be interested in him, that Francis would be the kind of person to pursue a relationship with a married man when he could have a woman like Sophia Cracroft?

“I need to get breakfast started,” he said quickly. “Francis, do you mind taking Miss Cracroft to her room? It’s next to the Franklins’.”

“All right, James.” Francis and Sophia’s hands brushed as she gave him her suitcase. Together, they ascended the stairs. Sophia’s arm slipped into Francis’s, and she leaned over to whisper something in his ear. James lingered for a moment, watching them. They made an attractive pair, the sea captain and the nurse. Far better than the sea captain and the writer who invented every detail of his perfect life.

Turning away, James retreated into the kitchen.

* * *

During his first trip to New York after the war, John Diggle had the chance to see _Cyrano de Bergerac_ on Broadway. John was certainly not a theater aficionado, but by the end of the play, he was in tears, partly for the tragedy of the hero dying in his love’s arms, partly out of frustration. It seemed to John that much of the mess the characters found themselves in could have been fixed if Cyrano had just told Roxanne how he felt. Maybe they would have been able to come to some sort of arrangement with the young cadet so Roxanne could enjoy the affections of both the men who loved her. It would have made a very different play, but one that would save the characters a lot of heartache.

He sighed as he watched James stare down into the mixture of eggs, milk, and honey. These elaborate ruses, even those done for a good cause, never worked, and someone always ended up hurt.

“You let that sit much longer, and you’re going to have a very wet bread pudding instead of French toast,” he said. When Lady Jane announced that she was going to watch James cook, John picked French toast for the breakfast menu. It gave him the chance to prepare the main ingredients the night before so all James had to do was soak the bread, toss it in the frying pan for a couple minutes, then stick it in the oven to make the edges golden and crispy. Not too hard, even for someone with James’s nonexistent cooking skills. Except John had not anticipated a broken heart suddenly throwing everything out of joint.

“How do you think they know each other?” James asked.

“I don’t know,” John said. “Put that out of your mind for now. Try to get a slice done for practice.”

“Good morning, James, Mr. Diggle,” Lady Jane’s voice snapped them to attention. She sauntered over to see what they were doing. “Oh French toast, lovely.” She smiled apologetically at James.

“James, dear, do you mind if we postpone the cooking lesson this morning? I want to help Sophia unpack.”

“I understand, Lady Jane. We’ll do it another time.” If James seemed both relieved and a little deflated, Lady Jane seemed not to notice.

“Lady Jane?” She stopped at the kitchen door. “How do Francis and Sophia know each other?”

“Oh they met during the war. Francis was quite keen, but Sophy turned down his proposal. Twice.” The expression on her face suggested she thought this was a very good thing. “Breakfast smells lovely,” she called as she left.

Gently, John steered James away from the bowl to sit at the table. The pieces of bread had begun to break up in the custard and turn the mixture into very thick soup. He placed a cup of strong tea in James’s hands. “Come on,” he said. “You stay there. I’ll take care of this.”

* * *

“I think you were surprised to see me.”

Francis looked up from his solo game of chess to see Sophia standing in front of him. She had changed from her uniform into a colorful oversized jumper and trousers. They were the only ones in the sitting room. Sir John and Lady Jane were upstairs, Edward and Thomas were outside, and James had sequestered himself in the kitchen.

“No one told me you were coming. But you knew I was going to be here.”

“I was with Aunt Jane when Uncle John made the plans on the phone.” She pulled up a chair to sit across from him. “I thought it would be fun to see the inside of James Fitzjames’s house. And I wanted to see you. Are you winning?”

“I don’t know.” Francis was having a difficult time concentrating on his own game. Instead, his mind was occupied with the events of the past couple of days. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that something very strange was going on in the house, something Francis did not understand. For two days, James had been incredibly gregarious, the image of the perfect host, ducking in and out of the kitchen with treats and telling long stories about China and Africa and humorous incidents on the farm. It had been annoying, even though Francis had to admit James was incredibly attractive, a good storyteller, and a good cook. Then came the morning when they took Victoria (James really had a wicked sense of humor) back to the barn. Francis had thought it was just the chill and the early dawn light that had drawn them so close, but he remembered the longing in James’s eyes and the soft whisper of his voice. James had wanted Francis to kiss him. A part of Francis wished he had gone through with it, even though the other part kept firmly reminding him not to get romantically entangled with England’s Favorite Cook who was also happily married. Were James and Edward happily married? Francis had thought so at first, but there was something about their interactions that made him suspicious. They were friendly and affectionate, yet they didn’t act married. Francis knew every couple was different, but he had a general idea of how they typically behaved watching James and Ann and Thomas and Esther.

And suddenly this morning James shut himself away, barely speaking a word at breakfast. Francis did not believe his excuse that he needed to finish last-minute preparations for tomorrow. Something had upset him.

Sophia picked up one of the black pawns. “What’s on your mind, Francis?”

Francis shook his head. Even after all these years, she read him so easily. She had seen that their wartime fling would not last long before he had and recognized his proposals for what they were: a grasp for stability after so many long years of fighting. Francis had wanted to get married because he thought he should get married; that’s what soldiers and sailors did after they came home, right? Find their sweethearts, settle down, and grow a little family. Except neither Francis nor Sophia had truly wanted that life, although Francis had not realized it at the time. Now though, he could imagine settling down, but the person he wanted stood beyond his grasp.

“I met someone.” Before Sophia could let out exclamations of glee and congratulations, he added, “He’s married.”

“Oh Francis.” Sophia’s excited posture collapsed into a slouch. “When did this happen?”

“Recently.”

“How recently?” Francis shrugged noncommittally. “Don’t evade me, Francis. I know how to get information out of you.” Sophia’s blue eyes narrowed. “Is it James Fitzjames?”

He could not lie to her. “Yes.”

“Well, I can’t blame you,” she sighed. “He’s an attractive, charming man. It’s no wonder he turned your head.”

“Not very lucky, am I?” He managed to capture one of the black knights from himself.

“No,” she said, reaching out to hold his hand. “No you’re not.” Sophia nudged his foot with hers. “Come upstairs. You need a distraction, and I need someone to help me wrap presents.”

* * *

Christmas Eve night crept up fast. As the hour grew late, James, Edward, and their guests donned their warmest coats and tromped through the snow to the midnight service at the village church. Golden candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls as the young vicar, an old friend of Edward’s, delivered a sermon on charity, forgiveness, and the importance of spreading joy to others. He preached very passionately, yet James had a hard time paying attention to him or to the reading of the Christmas story by one of Edward’s neighbors, John Bridgens, whose gentle voice echoed in the small church. Despite himself, James kept glancing at Francis sitting beside him. He looked so handsome as the candlelight illuminated his face. When the congregation rose to sing, they shared a hymnbook. James was more focused on how close their hands were and the furrow on Francis’s brow as he concentrated on the words, even as his voice was drowned out by the rest of the churchgoers.

James did not have time to moon over Francis for long. After the service was a reception with coffee, tea, and an assortment of biscuits and pies. Immediately, James found himself swamped by a throng of curious admirers. No one was rude or pushy, but they were all extremely welcoming and friendly as they bombarded James with questions about how to keep crepes from getting soggy and the proper way to mix rum and egg whites. James kept smiling and nodding politely while trying desperately to remember all the recipe instructions Diggle had given him over the years and wishing Diggle was standing beside him instead of talking to a couple James guessed were Harry and Silna Goodsir on the other side of the room.

“Let the man breathe for a moment,” John Bridgens said, easily maneuvering his way through the group. He handed James a cup of tea. “It’s Christmas for him too.” Chastised, James’s admirers withdrew to break up into small gossip circles. James took a sip of his tea. He was good at being the center of attention, but that was a little much, even for him.

“Thank you.”

“You looked a little overwhelmed,” Bridgens replied. “I know a spot where you can sit down and catch your breath.” James followed Bridgens to the row of chairs neatly lined up against the wall. It was a little quieter and more private, but James still had a clear view of everyone in the room. He quickly spotted Francis talking to Bridgens’s husband, Henry. Sophia stood beside him. In her pale blue dress she looked like a fairy princess from a ballet. Not too far away from them, Edward and Jopson were listening to the excited Reverend John Irving. James could not hear their conversation, but he caught the words “fornication”, “blasphemy”, and “nearly was stabbed” before Irving’s husband Tom walked over and laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.

“I was very surprised to hear that you and Edward are an item,” Bridgens remarked. “Especially when you two are in love with different people.”

James nearly choked on his tea. “Are we that obvious?”

“No. But the signs are there if one cares to look closely. Besides I think Simon and Sarah would have let it drop once or twice that their son was with James Fitzjames.”

“You’re very perceptive, Mr. Bridgens.”

Bridgens made a little self-deprecating shrug. “I read a lot, Mr. Fitzjames.” He turned to watch his husband and Francis, desire and fondness mingling in his eyes. “And I noticed the way you look at Captain Crozier. I have been reliably informed that I have a similar look on my face whenever I see Henry.”

James stared down at his teacup. “It can’t ever happen.”

“Are you certain?” James nodded. “I thought the same once. It is amazing what you discover once you actually have a conversation.”

“Hello John, Mr. Fitzjames.” Henry walked over to sit beside his husband.

“Where’s Captain Crozier?” Bridgens asked.

“He just went outside.” Henry was looking at James very pointedly. “Is it just me or is it getting a little close in here?” He nodded toward the door. “It’s a very clear night. Might be good to get some fresh air.”

By some minor miracle, James managed to grab his coat and slip out unseen. He found Francis in the churchyard, a solitary figure amidst the thick blanket of snow that covered the ground. He stood with his back to James and was gazing up at the thicket of stars overhead. For a moment, James imagined what Francis would look like on one of his voyages, hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the endless horizon. Francis said nothing as James approached. A strange sense of contentment swept over James. Out here, away from the noise and activity in the church, it almost felt like he and Francis were the only two people together in the still, clear night. Nothing else mattered.

“Getting a little crowded in there?” Francis asked, breaking the silence.

“Henry Peglar-Bridgens suggested I should get some air.”

“Hmmm. He mentioned the same thing to me,” he said, still looking up at the sky.

“When I was in the Arctic, I sometimes heard the northern lights,” he said. “Seeing them, you’d think it would be something more ethereal, but it actually sounded more like seagulls in the distance or wireless static.”

“Hardly a siren’s song.”

“No, no. The crew did not like it at all, but it never lasted long. It always ended too soon for me. I tried to find some way to record it, but I couldn’t risk the equipment.”

James grinned at the mental image of Francis trying to brave the freezing temperatures to record bizarre phenomena. “I wish I could have known you then.”

Francis shook his head. “No you don’t. You would not have wanted anything to do with me, James. I was foolish and reckless after the war. Jopson can tell you stories.”

“Miss Cracroft?” The name slipped out before James could stop himself. Francis looked at him sharply.

“How…?”

“I talked to Lady Jane.”

“Oh. I expect she made her opinion very clear about that. Sophia and I…well, we wanted different things. Throwing myself back into the Arctic seemed as good a way as any to forget. Only I realized at the worst possible moment what a danger I was to everyone around me.”

“But you made it.” All the crew had returned home, and Ross and Crozier’s expedition had been deemed a success, even if it was buried deep under the announcement of the prince’s birth.

“It was a close thing.”

A loud cheer followed by the beginning of an enthusiastic round of caroling echoed from inside the church. Vicar Irving must have succeeded in recruiting enough of his congregants to join him singing. Francis glanced back at the warm light emanating from the church windows.

“Do you want to go back inside?” he asked.

“Not particularly. Fancy a walk?”

“Think you can manage?” Francis gave a pointed look at James’s boots.

“I promise I’m wearing very practical footwear. No chance of my falling on my backside again. I think,” James hastily added. Francis laughed, his broad grin showing off the gap in his front teeth. The sound made James’s heart dance an excited jig. He had made Francis laugh. Not James Fitzjames the Perfect Host, just him.

They took a path that led them away from the church and village to a lonely stretch of road. A part of James knew that they should not wander lest they get lost, but it was not as if they were planning to go very far. Besides, if they did get turned around, James figured he and Francis would be able to navigate their way back without much trouble. As they walked, James kept glancing at Francis like he had during the service, taking in the way the stars reflected in his clear blue eyes, the wisps of fair hair peeking out from under his cap, the wistful expression on his face.

“Do you miss it? The Arctic?” he asked.

“Sometimes very much,” Francis replied. “Not as much as I used to, though. There was a time when I thought there was nothing that could tie me in one place for very long.” He paused, his gaze lingering on James’s face. “Now I may have found it.”

James thought of the way Sophia Cracroft’s hand rested on Francis’s arm as they departed for church. “I hope you’ll be happy. You deserve it.”

Francis turned to James, his eyebrows drawing together in concern. “So do you.”

“Francis…” James sighed. Perhaps it was the darkness and their isolation, but he suddenly felt very overwhelmed. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what a fraud I was.”

Francis stopped. “What do you mean?”

“When I told you James Fitzjames was not my father, there was more truth to that than you realized.” The words came spilling out like water from a broken dam. He told Francis about his father—a disgraced consul in Brazil during the Great War, being handed off to distant relatives to find people to raise him, joining the navy just when things were heating up in Europe. Everything he did—in Iraq, in China, in Africa—it was all to carve out a shining spot of old-fashioned glory for himself.

“And then the war ended, and we all went home. I got out, thought about becoming a journalist. I fancied the idea of traveling all over the world, South America especially, and writing about the political situation there. Only the coffers were overflowing with journalists. Besides, everyone was so focused on settling down, starting families, and putting the hard years behind them. So, I decided to write about what they wanted. I created this ideal life that they could aspire to. Perfect home. Perfect marriage. Perfect food. Who could ask for anything else?”

“You’re not a fraud,” Francis said. He took James’s hands in his. “You were faced with a challenge, you saw an opportunity, and you took it. You have a gift, James, and you use it to make people’s lives better.” A small smile spread across his lips as he looked down at their clasped hands.

“Your hands are freezing. Why aren’t you wearing your gloves?”

“I must have forgotten to put them on.” Before he could say anything else, Francis tugged off his own gloves and began to vigorously rub James’s hands between his. Warmth quickly spread from Francis’s strong fingers. James wondered if Francis could feel the rapid flutter of his pulse.

“Better?” James nodded. To his surprise, Francis did not pull away. His movements slowed until he was lightly caressing James’s fingers. “I hope Edward Little knows what a good thing he has with you. You should be happy.” He paused, looking into James’s eyes. “I want you to be happy.”

“Francis…” This was it. James would tell Francis everything and hang the consequences. Even though Francis was still in love with Sophia Cracroft, James needed him to know. He took a deep breath. “Francis, I—”

The loud honk of a horn cut him off. They turned to see a car slowly approaching them, Mr. Irving leaning out of the passenger window waving at them. “There you are!” he called. He hurried out of the car, followed by his husband. “It was getting late, and we were wondering where you were. Everyone’s gone home.”

“We figured you had just wandered off, but we wanted to make sure you were all right,” Tom Irving added.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly three.”

James blinked in surprise. Three in the morning? Time had slipped by so fast without either of them noticing.

“Could we drive you back?” Mr. Irving asked. “You never know what you might run into out here.”

“Thank you very much.” Francis gave James’s hand one more squeeze before they climbed into the backseat of the Irvings’ car. Mr. Irving watched them keenly but said nothing. James wondered how much he knew. The engine rumbled back to life, and the car turned around to head back into the village. Looking out the window, James could not see the stars or the dark shapes of the trees that lined the side of the road. Beside him, Francis was silent.

* * *

This was not how Billy Gibson planned to spend Christmas Eve. Exactly _how_ Billy Gibson planned to spend Christmas Eve, he did not know, but it was not slowly turning into an icicle while his fiancé lurked outside a minor celebrity’s house to take a few pictures of the inhabitants. When Charles Des Voeux overheard Sir John’s plans to spend Christmas with James Fitzjames, he had discretely slipped that tidbit of information to Billy, who like any good boyfriend, told his fiancé, who leapt at the chance to get some candid snapshots of the home of England’s Favorite Cook for the rag he worked for. Only they had been out here for what felt like hours, and there was nothing. The house was dark, everyone was in bed, and Billy just about had enough.

“How much longer, Neil?”

“Just a few more minutes. Everyone should be back by now. The service ended hours ago.” He was right. So far, only Sir John, his wife, their niece, and a man neither of them recognized had returned to the house.

“What are you looking for?” Billy tucked his hands under his armpits in a vain attempt to get a little life back into his fingers.

“There’s something weird going here, Billy. This is supposed to be where James Fitzjames lives. Yet everyone in the village was surprised when I asked about him. Even the police sergeant, and he’s been friends with Fitzjames’s husband for years.” Billy had dark thoughts about that sergeant. There was discrete questioning and there was out-and-out flirting, and that was flirting, no matter how much Neil insisted the sergeant was happily married. “Now one or two people keeping a secret? I can believe. But a village this size? How can a person slip around unnoticed by so many?"

“You have.”

He tapped his nose. “Ah but I’m not the most famous cook in England.”

Something crunched in the distance behind them. “Did you hear that?”

Neil shook his head. “Probably a rabbit.” Billy doubted it. Rabbits had more sense and would be snuggled warm in their burrows.

“Neil, I’m cold.”

“Just a few more minutes," he repeated. "Where can Crozier and Fitzjames be?”

“Cornelius.” That always did the trick, even if it was only his pen name. Neil stashed his camera and binoculars away and took Billy’s hands.

“You are cold, love.” A mischievous grin spread on his face. He nodded toward the barn. “How about we get you warmed up?” Billy was not impressed. A barn was hardly romantic, but it would not be the weirdest spot they wound up in. Neil could be incredibly creative finding little hideaways for them to have a few minutes of private bliss. The church was a step too far, though, and they had barely escaped the vicar’s husband chasing them with a shovel.

They rose from their hiding place behind the bushes. Billy’s joints felt like there were bits of ice in them. The barn door was cracked open, and they slipped inside. To Billy’s surprise, it was quite warm, even if it also had the distinct odor of farm animals. Perhaps they could have a little fun here after all. Suddenly feeling more adventurous, he pulled Neil close, wrapping his arms around him as Neil tipped his face up to nuzzle Billy’s nose. Billy leaned down to kiss him, eager to slid his hands under his fiancé’s many layers when they heard a low, breathy, unmistakable moan in the loft above them. Gesturing for silence, Neil slipped his camera out of his bag and began climbing the ladder, Billy following close behind him. They froze in shock as their heads peeked through the trapdoor.

Edward Little lay stretched out on the floor, his overcoat spread over the hay. Atop him, straddling his hips was Crozier’s steward Jopson, who was currently lavishing attention on a spot just under Little’s jaw. Both men were fully clothed, though by the way their hands were moving over each other, they were not going to remain like that for very long.

Neil raised his camera. Billy shut his eyes against the bright light of the flashbulb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas fic in March? It's more likely than you think. In my defense, December turned out to be busier than expected, plus beginning the new semester slowed down my writing progress on this chapter. So have some more Christmas hijinks just as spring comes rolling in.


End file.
